


About Time

by SpraceJunkie



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:35:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpraceJunkie/pseuds/SpraceJunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spot Conlon was tough, but everybody has a weakness. And his was Race. The way he smirked, his crooked teeth, his obnoxious laugh, his voice, his ever present cigar, everything about Race drove Spot absolutely crazy, and he wasn't sure if it was in a good or bad way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	About Time

The first time his heart fluttered, it was the middle of summer and he told himself he was dehydrated and overheated. When it happened again, in the winter, he convinced himself it was just a shiver from the cold. When it happened in the rain, it was just a subconscious shake to get rid of the water, in a crowd, it was slight claustrophobia. The flutter seemed to come at random times, but he always told himself there was a reason. There was no way it was in any way related to the fact that it always happened around the Manhattan newsies. Not just any of them though, just a specific group. Okay, a specific three. Maybe two. Really, there was just one who caused that flutter. The one soft spot on his heart, that damn Racetrack Higgins. He tried to get Race to bug off, tried to soak him, tried to keep him from Brooklyn, but he never could. Spot Conlon was tough, but everybody has a weakness. And his was Race. The way he smirked, his crooked teeth, his obnoxious laugh, his voice, his ever present cigar, everything about Race drove Spot absolutely crazy, and he wasn't sure if it was in a good or bad way. Not that Brooklyn’s leader would ever, in any way, admit that. No way. It was just the weather, just being outside. No way was that flutter related to Race. But when he really let himself think about it, when it was late at night and he was tired, and Race had been over for a poker game, and maybe he was a little drunk, he knew that it was in every way related to his friend. He knew that there was a reason for the friendship that he’d allowed to grow between them after all those years of not caring too much for anyone, he knew that his feeling went beyond friendship, and he knew that pesky little flutter was caused by the handshakes and nudges, the laughs and almost-but-not-quite-hugs that happened when he won a bet at the tracks. He knew his heart sped up when he saw Race crossing the bridge, he knew that it wasn't his birdies who told him when Race arrived, because he was always watching first thing in the morning. Waiting for the face to come into focus, and then waiting for him to be far enough into Brooklyn that it wouldn't be obvious how much he looked forward to seeing Race every day to walk to him and head to the races together. Spot lived for the little touches, he thrived on them, he did what he could to make them last, but he knew that there was no way they would ever be anything other than that: little touches, little handshakes and friendly swats. Several time, he almost kissed Race right on the mouth, after a good bet, when Spot won big in one of their poker games, when Race gave him that little smirk walking back to the lodging house after selling. He always managed to stop himself, he hoped without Race noticing anything, but it was harder and harder each time, and he was sure one day he would fail, and he would lose his friend forever. So he kept trying, and he succeeded. At least until one day, after the races, walking home.  
“Dat guy said ta me, he said, “Lady Gray, she’s a sure bet, ain't lost a race in weeks!” So what do I do, I bets on Lady Gray, right? An’ den dey announce da racers, and I looks at number eight, right, since dats Lady Gray, an’ what does I see but some old nag, an’ I’m thinkin’ “No way is dis right, dat man jist screwed me over,” an’ I thinks she’s a sure bet ta lose, right? An’ den da race starts an’ off she goes, fast as a shootin’ star, an’ wins da whole race! So now I’se got two whole dollars! Whaddaya think of dat, Spot?” Race was grinning as he fingered the money in his pocket.  
“If I hadn't been there ta see da whole thing, I’m sure it woulda been a rivetin’ story, Race.” Race just smirked at him, a light dancing in his eyes that was only there after a gamble paid off. Spot felt the urge to kiss his friend stronger than ever at that expression, and he almost gave in, almost leaned towards him and planted a strong kiss right on those pink lips, but he stopped himself at the last second. There were people walking around, people who didn't like newsies normally, let alone newsies who kissed other boys in the middle of the street. It was against the law. The pair continued walking, Spot stealing little glances at the other boy as he reacted, perhaps without even realizing it, to the things around them. His eyebrow would raise, his mouth would twitch, he would snort a little laugh, and Spot just wanted to kiss him. Finally he could stand it no longer, he didn't care about the consequences anymore, and he pushed Race into the closest alley, all the way to the shadows at the end.  
“What-” Spot stopped the question leaving Race’s mouth with his own lips, kissed him like he’d wanted to for all the time they'd been friends, and prepared himself for the attack that was sure to come, for the push and shouts of disgust, for the loss of his closest friend. What he didn't prepare himself for was the little sigh that left Race’s mouth, for Race kissing him back, wrapping an arm around him and sliding a hand up into his hair, kissing Spot back as hard as Spot was kissing him. He didn't prepare himself for the weakness in his knees and the subsequent collapse, resulting in him on the ground with Race on top, still kissing fiercely. He definitely wasn't prepared for Race to break away when he did.  
“It’s about time,” He said simply, before standing and helping Spot to his feet, not that Spot needed it, but because it was an excuse to share another touch. Spot took the hand offered to him, but this time didn't let go like he usually did after a handshake. This time, Spot held on to that rough hand, held on to the hand of Racetrack Higgins and used it to pull his friend closer for an embrace that melted into another kiss, slower and more controlled this time. “It’s about time.” Race said again when they finally broke apart and released each other. Spot didn't question, he just nodded. He nodded and looked at Race and saw that same light that came from a good gamble dancing through again, and he knew that for once in his life, something was his. Race was his to hold and kiss and love, even if he wasn't willing to admit it. Race wouldn't leave him, because Race was steadfast and constant, predictable in the best way possible. He finally allowed himself to stare at Race, to memorize every aspect of his face, from the exact color of his eyes to the way his cheeks were flushed slightly pink. He allowed himself to touch that face, he allowed his thumb to travel over Race’s cheek before kissing him again. Maybe he couldn't do that anywhere but a place like this, dark and private, but he could do it here. He could be free to love Race and allow Race to love him back, and even though the world said it was wrong, it was the most right thing in the world. It felt right and perfect to draw Race close to him, to feel the muscles of Race’s back ripple against his hand as he leaned into Spot, melting in his arms. Nothing had ever felt more right to Spot than kissing Race and having Race kiss him back. This was perfect, no matter what society told them, and Spot wasn't letting it go.


End file.
